


and my body (a fault line)

by peacefrog



Series: what shall be (shall be enough) [3]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: M/M, Nightmares, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-05
Updated: 2016-01-05
Packaged: 2018-05-11 22:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5644414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacefrog/pseuds/peacefrog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We’re not in therapy.”</p><p>“Would you like to be?”</p><p>“You can’t be serious.” Will peels himself up off the sofa and begins slowly pacing the floor.</p><p>“I am.”</p><p>“Whose therapy are we talking about, Hannibal?” Will doesn’t mean to sound as angry as his words come out. “Mine or yours?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	and my body (a fault line)

_No, I do not recall the jump_  
_Nor the reasons why. The dream begins with_  
_The plummet. Air tears_  
_At my skin. I crash_  
_Into the sidewalk, crack_  
_The concrete and my body (a fault line_  
_From shoulder to hip)._  
_—Jericho Brown_

—

The slick, inky blackness floods Will’s eyes, filling up his nose and spilling into his lungs until breathing turns into a violent choke. Through the fog of blinding dark sharp points of light form around the edges of his vision. A hand curves around his neck, fingers like claws against his throat, the tender flesh stretched across his pulse threatening to tear.

He gasps for air, every breath as thick as tar, the taste of copper on his tongue as he crashes to his knees. His hands grope blindly in the dark, coming to rest against feet like hooves that clack against the ground, oily and warm beneath his fingers. He feels the sharp tips of them first, the great rack of antlers clawing down his back. A prison made of bone. They pin him down like prey.

He thrashes against the tines of his cage until the earth gives out below. Trapped in the clutches of the beast all around, he feels himself falling, floating, spinning through the air, and then a tremendous pain blooms inside his chest. A sharp and sudden impact, cracking open his ribs and snapping his limbs like twigs. Water pours into him, seeping in through all the spaces the suffocating dark has not yet found. 

His body goes still, blossoming like a bruise against the surface of the ocean.

—

Will wakes curled up on the sofa in Hannibal’s study, his t-shirt soaked through and sticking to the leather. Hannibal is at his desk, and he turns to Will when he hears him stir.

“Good morning,” Hannibal says. “Or should I say good evening?”

“What time is it?” Will rubs at his eyes, still in a daze.

“Just after 10pm,” Hannibal says.

Will’s post-dinner nap had lasted nearly two hours.

“Why didn’t you wake me?”

“You were having a nightmare.”

“Which is usually a valid reason to wake someone up.”

“You were in no immediate danger. You have gone through a traumatic event, nightmares are to be expected,” Hannibal explains. “Letting them run their course can be beneficial in the end.”

“We’re not in therapy.”

“Would you like to be?”

“You can’t be serious.” Will peels himself up off the sofa and begins slowly pacing the floor.

“I am.”

“Whose therapy are we talking about, Hannibal?” Will doesn’t mean to sound as angry as his words come out. “Mine or yours?”

“Why not both?” Hannibal’s eyes follow Will as he moves. “We have both suffered the same trauma.”

“Have we?” Will has no idea where that came from, or why he’s suddenly so annoyed. “I think we’re holding up just fine.”

“While sex can be very therapeutic, it is not a substitute for real therapy.”

Will wonders for a moment if kissing Hannibal until he forgets the whole thing is a feasible option. He knows, at best, it will only delay the inevitable. 

“Alright. Fine.” Will perches on the edge of Hannibal’s desk. “One session. Tomorrow night. That’s it.”

“Perfect.” Hannibal smiles up at him. “How does 7:30 sound?”

Will can’t help but roll his eyes, but then suddenly he is laughing. He falls into Hannibal’s lap and crashes their mouths together.

—

The door to Hannibal’s study is closed. Will’s watch tells him it’s 7:30 on the dot. He knocks, and when Hannibal swings the door open Will is pleasantly surprised to see him dressed in a suit identical to one he would have worn back in Baltimore. Hannibal’s attire has been far more casual since they arrived in Argentina, and Will hadn’t realized until this moment how much he missed seeing him like this.

“Hello, Dr. Lecter.”

“Will,” Hannibal gestures for him to enter. “Please, come in.”

Two club chairs face each other in the center of the room. Will takes the one furthest from the door. When Hannibal sits, casually crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap, Will feels as if they have been transported back to the place where they sat like this so many times before. He chokes down the feeling he has no name for burning inside his chest.

“Where shall we begin?” Hannibal asks.

“You tell me, Doctor.”

“Tell me about your nightmares,” Hannibal suggests. “You had another one last night.”

“I did,” Will says. “And, once again, you didn’t wake me.”

“What do you imagine my waking you will accomplish?”

“I imagine it will make them stop.”

“In that moment, yes.”

“Life is just a series of moments,” Will says, crossing his legs, making himself a mirror of the man across from him.

“But the trauma you have suffered is not tied to one singular moment.”

“I dream that I’m falling. I dream that I’m drowning. I’d say that can be tied to a singular moment, wouldn’t you?” Will considers him for a moment. “You said our trauma was the same.”

“I did. And years of shared moments lead up to that event.”

“And what do you suggest we do about it?”

“We did something about it when we chose this life together. Choosing life was the most important part, but you can’t allow yourself to block out what has happened,” Hannibal says. “You must acknowledge that although you have chosen a life with me now, there was a reason you chose death for us both in that moment.”

“You know the reason why.”

“I do.” Hannibal uncrosses his legs, leaning forward in his seat as the dim light of the room casts shadows across his face. “You have acknowledged who you are, but you cannot yet accept it. You chose death over acceptance. If you are to continue choosing life, you can no longer hide from who you are.”

“That sounds like an ultimatum.”

“I assure you it is not,” Hannibal says. “I meant it when I said I expect nothing more than you are willing to give, but I also believe your continued happiness relies on the acceptance of all parts of yourself.”

“Don’t pretend that this is all about my happiness,” Will says, amused. “You want me to kill.”

“Desires and expectations are not the same.”

“Do you think you could go the rest of your life without killing ever again?”

“I know that I can,” Hannibal says, confidently. “Just as I could go the rest of my life without the luxuries I have come to appreciate and desire. I could live a life devoid of dignity. Survival is basic, but we do not exist merely to survive.”

“But you would do just that if I asked you to,” Will says. “You would stop for me.”

“I would,” Hannibal agrees. “But we both know you would never ask that of me.”

The air between them fills with silence. Hannibal shifts in his seat, a thin halo of light forming around his head, and Will can almost see the wisps of antlers sprouting from his skull like shoots rising from the earth in spring.

“Tell me,” Hannibal says, breaking the silence. “Do you feel guilty for abandoning your wife and step-son?”

“I don’t know how to answer that.”

“Yes, you do.”

“I meant it when I said I liked my life there,” Will grips the arms of the chair so tight he leaves deep imprints in the leather. “Molly loved me. Probably still does.”

The barely perceptible twitch of Hannibal’s lip betrays how those words prod the beast inside. Will can almost hear the snarl.

“She loved the part of yourself that you allowed her to see,” Hannibal says. “And you allowed yourself to get lost in her perception of you. Your life with her made you feel human.”

“She’s alone and grieving my death. Widowed twice over. I feel guilt for that, but not for leaving.”

“You could write to her. Let her know that you’re alive.”

“And risk getting us both caught in the process,” Will sighs. “I’d rather take the guilt.”

“Then the guilt you feel is of little use,” Hannibal explains. “Will Graham is dead to the world in every way that counts. You have been reborn. Your past life should burden you no more than that of a perfect stranger. Build a room and keep it there.”

Will can feel him, Hannibal elegantly gliding through the halls of his mind, footfalls echoing in the vast chambers and down narrow corridors, his presence flowing through the streams and venturing into all the dark, decaying corners Will has spent much his life trying to hide.

“I want you to close your eyes for me,” Hannibal says. “Recall the way you felt the moment you took Francis Dolarhyde’s life away from him.”

When Will’s eyes slide shut, it is not a quiet sense of power that overcomes him, but a deafening, crushing wave that floods his veins and fills him to the brim. The scar on his cheek aches as if it’s being torn wide open. He can taste the blood inside his mouth, can see it as it trickles from his fingers, raven-black and shining in the moonlight.

“Feel the power in your hands,” Hannibal’s voice drifts in through the fog. “You have not lost control. You have seized it.”

Will feels the flesh tear beneath his blade, the easy slide of fate he holds inside his fist. It is not an act of God, nor is it a defiance. It is a becoming of something far greater than that which can be deified. 

“Feel the arousal as it blooms inside your body,” Hannibal continues. “Feel it as we claim our power, together.”

Will feels Hannibal’s breath hot against his lips, the way his shaking hand slips against the slick, blood-soaked fabric covering Hannibal’s shoulder. Hannibal’s fingers tremble when they reach for him. Their first kiss nearly tasted like the throes of death.

“Remember that moment. There is no falling after, no pain. There is only freedom.”

Will is half hard when he opens his eyes. He wants to crawl across the floor and settle in between Hannibal’s knees. He wants to possess the air in his lungs, consume the words that lie hidden beneath his tongue. He wants to tear at the expensive fabrics covering Hannibal’s skin and latch onto all the most tender parts of him.

“We are free.” Hannibal’s voice has nearly become a whisper. “The trappings of our old lives, the cage created by convention and morality, useless guilt and fear and pain, none of these define or inform who we are.”

“We... inform who we are,” Will drawls, voice soft, eyes fixed on the curve of Hannibal’s mouth.

“Yes.”

“Although I doubt my nightmares will listen to reason.”

“They may persist, but you do not have to fear them.”

“Okay,” Will says, rising to his feet. He strides across the floor until he reaches Hannibal’s chair. “But if you’re not going to wake me from them, I may require some comfort upon waking myself.”

“Is that so?” Hannibal’s eyes are black voids peering up at him. Will wants to crawl inside and lose himself in the dark.

Will pulls Hannibal to his feet. They stumble back, nearly toppling over, but Will manages to steady them before they fall to the floor.

“I think therapy is over for the day, Dr. Lecter.” Will wraps his fist around the knot of Hannibal’s tie, dragging him in for a kiss.

“No, my dear boy,” Hannibal nips at Will’s bottom lip. “I believe our therapy has just begun.”

—

That night Will does not dream in sights, but in sounds. The crash of waves against rocks, the sickening snap of bone, Hannibal’s voice muffled in the water, calling out Will’s name again and again. He hears the steady drip of blood down into a vast and angry ocean, the cry of gulls somewhere in the distance. Talons tearing at flesh. Antlers dragging against stone.

He wakes at 3am with Hannibal curled around his back, their ankles tangled together beneath the sheets. He feels no fear at all, only the steady thump of Hannibal’s heart beating against his skin, and the warmth of the bed he’s begun to think of as his own. Hannibal’s fingers splay across his chest like tree roots anchoring him to the earth, and when sleep drags him under once more he dreams of nothing but light, the sky above him burning.

**Author's Note:**

> on tumblr [here](http://crossroadscastiel.tumblr.com/post/136708207012/crossroadscastiel-and-my-body-a-fault-line)


End file.
